


He Has My Dying Voice

by JacobFlood



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hope, POV Third Person, Post-Canon, no shakespearean dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 03:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11682720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacobFlood/pseuds/JacobFlood
Summary: To get away from the memories that haunt Elsinore, Horatio goes wandering. Out in the wilderness, thanks to a sympathetic Norwegian soldier, and a return visit from a certain ghost, he might just find a path that leads, eventually, to peace.





	He Has My Dying Voice

People kept asking Horatio whether he thought Fortinbras would be a good king. But after the funerals, the ceremonies, the transfers of power, meeting after meeting, and the telling of Hamlet’s story a dozen times and more, all Horatio wanted to do was sleep.  
  
He was denied even that, of course. A few times he went and sat with Marcellus on his patrol, but all the soldiers just wanted hear the story again, or else talk in endless loops about Fortinbras, the future of Denmark. Both options made Horatio want to wither away into dust.  
  
So he found himself alone. Walking in the night and in the day. Letting the thump of his boots and the pounding ache in his legs overtake his thoughts. He quickly wore out Elsinore. There were few places that weren’t filled with memories of the dead. So he pulled his coat tighter and went out into Denmark.  
  
At first he confined himself to the grounds of the castle, but there he found the same problem as he had inside. Further afield then, avoiding the towns and crowded places where people might recognise him, ask him once again to tell the tragedy of Hamlet.  
  
Horatio found that the further he went, the harder he pushed himself, and the later he returned to his room in Elsinore, the more likely he was to collapse into sleep. To that end, he often set off in the haze before dawn. The mist rising over the fields prevented him from seeing too far, but he preferred it that way.  
  
One day he ranged so far that he was forced to take a room in a tavern, rather than trek back to the castle. He thought he’d managed to remain incognito, but upon descending to the common room in the morning, he found one of Fortinbras’ messengers waiting for him.  
  
‘The King wishes to speak with you,’ said the messenger, and they discreetly but stubbornly refused to let Horatio leave their sight, all the way back to Elsinore. Horatio sighed, but obeyed.  
  
Waiting outside the throne room, blood so recently cast across its floor, he looked at himself and noticed his clothes were rumpled and dirty, his hair uncombed. He hastily ran his fingers through it a few times, the guards on duty giving him a flat look. Denmark might not have felt like his country anymore, but there were still protocols to be observed, still respect due to a king.  
  
Once ushered in, he saw that Fortinbras was standing, off the dais, away from the throne, peering at a map of Denmark’s borders. Some redrawing must be in order, thought Horatio, without any great interest. The effort of anything political seemed to him immense and disconnected from his own existence. You couldn’t build an empire out of the hollows that remained in that castle.  
  
There was another man, a soldier, standing across the table from Fortinbras. His uniform was spotless, his hair shaved back to nothing, and his posture was rigid. Horatio couldn’t tell him apart from every other Norwegian soldier he’d seen.  
  
‘You’re a popular man,’ said the king.  
  
Horatio folded his hands behind his back and said nothing.  
  
‘The people have the tale. By now it has spread even beyond the borders of Denmark. You have their thanks and mine for telling it.’  
  
Horatio nodded. As long as he didn’t have to ever tell it again. Even the start was painful to him now, knowing the tale’s violent end. Fortinbras cleared his throat, his eyes darting over to the soldier for a moment.  
  
‘I understand you’ve been spending some time outdoors,’ he said, trying to smile.  
  
Horatio said nothing. He considered, distantly, returning the smile, or offering some conversational assurance, like he used to be so good at. But he found that nothing reached the surface.  
  
Fortinbras sighed. ‘You existence places me in an awkward position,’ he said. ‘You understand why I have to keep an eye on you.’  
  
‘I’m not going to foment some kind of rebellion, if that is what you speak of,’ said Horatio, meeting the king’s gaze. They stared at each other for a moment until Fortinbras smiled.  
  
‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘but no leader can take all such words as a gospel truth and expect to remain a leader.’ He shook his head. ‘If you are set on your wandering ways, I must assign you a guard. The people would be . . . displeased if you came to harm.’  
  
Horatio shrugged. It made little difference to him. Whether someone followed behind him or not as he walked, he would still walk.  
  
‘This is Marcus,’ said Fortinbras, gesturing to the soldier, who bowed to Horatio. ‘One of my finest men. He advanced to my personal guard entirely under his own merit. I do not engage in games of favourites, and my men respond accordingly. Marcus will ensure no harm comes to you.’  
  
Or if it does, that there’s someone efficient to carry it out, thought Horatio. He considered this, and found himself unmoved. He should have grasped harder at the poison goblet, not let Hamlet take it from his hands. Someone had to tell the story. Someone. Why it had to be him, though, was what stuck with him.  
  
He brought himself back to the room and nodded briefly at this Marcus—not quite Marcellus, he thought—and bowed to the king, then exited. Marcus trailed after him. Somewhere in one of Elsinore’s many long stone corridors, dim and drafty, Horatio stopped and turned to face his new shadow. Marcus looked at him impassively, one hand always on his sword pommel, the other resting on his belt. Horatio searched the man’s face for any clues, any sign of an opinion on his new charge, but found nothing. Horatio turned away and kept walking. The sound of Marcus’ steps followed him.  
  
‘Did you volunteer for this position?’ asked Horatio.  
  
‘I do as my king commands, sir,’ said Marcus. His voice was even, his delivery without any particular emphasis. He might have made a fine diplomat, thought Horatio. Particularly with that evasion of the question.  
  
‘Not an answer,’ said Horatio, his own diplomacy having bled out somewhere. There was silence from behind him. ‘I assure you, it is impossible for you to offend me.’  
  
There was another silence, then Marcus said, ‘I did not volunteer.’ Horatio made a satisfied hmph noise and led them out of the castle.  
  
‘Not exactly filled with glory, is it?’ he said. ‘Shepherding me around, making sure that I do not come to any undue harm.’  
  
There were no more words between them for a long time after that. Horatio walked and Marcus followed. Now he found he had somewhat of a desire to get as far away from Elsinore as he could, to spite Fortinbras in whatever small way possible. Would Marcus follow across national boundaries? There was, of course, only one way to find out.  
  
Somewhere around noon, Horatio halted and sat under a wide-spanning tree. The light came dappled and shifting down onto him. Marcus scanned the area, saw no other travellers, and leaned lightly on the tree trunk.  
  
‘Who do you think I am?’ asked Horatio. Now, at least, he could tell from a brief turn of the head to glimpse Marcus’ face, that the soldier was contemplating his answer.  
  
‘The last of the Danish court, sir,’ said Marcus.  
  
Horatio laughed. ‘Plenty of them left,’ he said. ‘And I’m no courtier. Just a man who was there.’  
  
‘I’ve heard the tale,’ said Marcus.  
  
‘Good,’ said Horatio. ‘Because I’m not telling it again.’ He rose and started walking across the field that lay before them. He hurdled a fence and then another, and Marcus followed. He walked into the forest, and Marcus followed. There where the light grew faint and the roots and branches grew thick. Every now and then, despite his gaze fixing on his feet, Horatio would trip. He always gestured Marcus away when the soldier offered a helping hand.  
  
But as the sun faded and Horatio tripped again, near the other side of the forest, he was too tired to object. Marcus helped him up, his hands rough but his grip light.  
  
‘I heard you tell it, sir,’ he said. Horatio looked at him blankly. ‘The tale. I was in the room when you told Fortinbras the first time.’  
  
Ah, thought Horatio. That had been the worst of all the tellings. With the bodies cleared but the blood not yet sponged from the stones. He had wept, he remembered. Wept and broken off from the tale a dozen times. He hadn’t previously considered that there would be other witnesses from that day that would ever see him again. He hadn’t considered much, really, he thought.  
  
‘What is he, as a man?’ asked Horatio. ‘Fortinbras, I mean. Not as a king.’  
  
‘I would not presume to—’  
  
‘Presume, please,’ said Horatio. ‘And don’t call me sir again. I’m lower than you.’  
  
Marcus took a step away. Horatio, without great purpose, dusted his front of its dirt. When he was finished, his coat looked more or less the same as it had. He folded his arms and looked at Marcus expectantly.  
  
‘I did not know him as a child,’ said the soldier. ‘Only by reputation until I came into his service.’  
  
‘And what was the reputation?’ asked Horatio.  
  
‘A worthy man,’ said Marcus.  
  
Horatio gestured for more.  
  
‘A man . . . perhaps given to overthinking. Who will take days or weeks before making a decision. A man who inspires loyalty even though he seems harsh or, or uncaring. A learned man, like yourself, sir.’  
  
Horatio must have shown displeasure on his face at that title, for Marcus apologised.  
  
‘Wittenberg isn’t quite so glorious as its reputation,’ said Horatio. Everything Marcus was saying could apply just as easily to Hamlet. Everything seemed to circle back to him, no matter how many distractions Horatio looked for. He kicked at the dirt and pulled at his coat sleeves.  
  
‘I believe’—here Marcus noticeably supressed the “sir”—‘that we are due rain.’  
  
Horatio looked skyward. Grey clouds indeed, gathering and darkening. Heavy and curling into each other. He was more of a city man, but even Horatio could tell that Marcus was right.  
  
‘And the rain it hammers down,’ he murmured. ‘So we shall be rained upon.’  
  
‘My king commanded me to keep you safe,’ said Marcus. ‘I believe that counts preventing you from dying of cold.’  
  
‘Do you,’ said Horatio. He could feel how flat his voice was. He stared back into the trees.  
  
‘I choose to believe it does,’ said Marcus.  
  
Horatio looked at him then, and saw the entreaty on Marcus’ face.  
  
‘Very well,’ said Horatio. ‘What action shall we take?’  
  
Marcus straightened, his shoulders rigid and his feet well apart. He pointed, the other hand still on his sword pommel, away from the trees, across the next field.  
  
‘There is a barn, just there,’ he said. ‘We could bed down there for the night.’  
  
Horatio nodded absently and the pair set off towards the structure in question. There was another fence between them and it, and when Marcus held out a hand to help Horatio over, he took it.  
  
The barn was dry, at least. Empty otherwise but for some scattered piles of hay, which Marcus pulled together for a bed. Enough for the pair of them, but not much more.  
  
‘I am afraid I am not much prepared for this lifestyle,’ said Horatio. He hesitated, then settled into the hay.  
  
‘I’ve had worse,’ said Marcus, still standing. He left the door slightly ajar, then undid his swordbelt and sat down. ‘If you wish to go further, the king gave me some gold. We could purchase blankets and food. There’s a town not far from here.’  
  
‘Very well,’ said Horatio, closing his eyes. There was silence for a moment but for the wind whistling through the door. ‘You were telling me of Fortinbras.’  
  
There was a pause, then Marcus said, ‘He respects his family, would revenge them if they were killed, but he will go against their wishes if he thinks it is right. He honours the dead. Some say he talks to them, rather than praying.’  
  
Again the similarities brought Horatio’s mind back to Hamlet. No escape from the shadow of the Danish prince.  
  
‘What of you?’ asked Horatio.  
  
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Marcus.  
  
Horatio opened his eyes and saw that Marcus had turned away on his side. He thought about asking again, about offering reassurance, but did not. In the morning, neither of them spoke of it.  
  
In the town they bought blankets and food and a pack that Marcus shouldered. Horatio wondered if he ought to have offered to carry it, but it was too late now. They walked on, side by side rather than one behind the other.  
  
They slept in more barns, in taverns when there was one, or under bushes when there wasn’t. Backs pressed against each other for the extra warmth. For days they didn’t speak of anything besides practical matters. Then, on some stony path in Horatio knew not what part of the country, Marcus spoke.  
  
‘The king wishes you for an advisor,’ he said. ‘Or an ambassador.’  
  
‘He told you this?’ asked Horatio.  
  
‘He was not specific,’ said Marcus. ‘But he wishes also for me to report to him on . . .’  
  
‘On whether I am fit for such a position,’ said Horatio. ‘I understand.’  
  
There was a long pause with only the sound of their boots crunching over stones to accompany them.  
  
‘I am sorry,’ said Marcus.  
  
‘There is no need,’ said Horatio, perhaps too quickly. ‘You serve your king, there is no apology for that.’  
  
They walked on for time. Horatio turned over the idea in his head. Serving under Fortinbras. The man might make a good king, in time. With the right advice. The catch was remaining in Elsinore, in those halls where every stone seemed to bring forth a memory. If not of Hamlet then of Ophelia. He increasingly found himself wishing he had stayed with her. If only he hadn’t let her out of his sight—but then when he’d gone looking for her, her room had been empty, and nobody knew what had become of her. Then Hamlet had returned, secretly from England, and it had vanished from Horatio’s mind. If only . . . he shook his head.  
  
‘I don’t know what I’d say to such an offer,’ he said, and it was the truth.  
  
The more they walked, the more it became obvious that Horatio was far less cut out for the wandering life than Marcus was. One night, in some stretch of dirt well off the road, the soldier built a small fire. Curled in their blankets across from each other, they talked of the past.  
  
Marcus spoke of growing up on a farm, of joining the army as soon as he was old enough. Just to get away from the mud, he said, laughing. No matter how much he complained about the new mud that war brought, he always grew antsy indoors. He met Horatio’s eyes and said that if he’d known this task would require spending so much time in the wilderness, he would have volunteered.  
  
Horatio spoke of Wittenberg, of being crouched in that immense library with Hamlet, quieting the antics of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, of sitting under trees with Hamlet, of interacting with all the great minds collected in that institution, of staying up late and getting drunk with Hamlet.  
  
‘Your voice changes when you talk about him,’ said Marcus. ‘It’s good to hear what he was like, before all this happened.’  
  
‘I don’t know,’ said Horatio, pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders. ‘Maybe he was always mad, and I was merely entranced by it. Maybe . . . I don’t know.’  
  
Sometimes the cold got into his bones and the old wish came up: that he could have tried harder to hold onto the poisoned goblet. Although, he thought, it had been a few days since that had occurred to him. He looked across the fire at Marcus, who gave him a little smile.  
  
They walked on. There was no clear direction. They would hew off at abrupt angles with no notice. If a particular building or feature in the landscape took their fancy, they would head for it. Days became weeks. Marcus’ suggestions emerged, took shape, and soon they were equally directing their way, rather than moving entirely at Horatio’s whim.  
  
One evening, looking for somewhere to camp, they found shelter among the roots of a scraggly tree. Horatio sat immediately, arranging his bedding, but Marcus stood, looking out over the fallow field before them. It was flat and brown and uninspiring, though there was a pair of hills to the north and a trio of peaks to the east.  
  
‘What is it?’ asked Horatio. He rose and stood beside Marcus, frowning at the scene. Some impression, something told to him by some Danish soldier, came into his mind. ‘I think I’ve heard of this place,’ he said. He pointed at the sets of hills. ‘This arrangement . . . I can’t remember.’  
  
‘There was a battle here,’ said Marcus. ‘Between your people and mine. Many men died.’  
  
‘In the time of King Hamlet,’ said Horatio. ‘Were you there?’  
  
Marcus shook his head. ‘I was too young,’ he said. ‘But I know the tale.’  
  
‘Tell it,’ said Horatio. He was tired of being the one who told the tales, though this trip had changed that. There were tales before the tragedy, and, maybe, tales after it.  
  
The light fell and the moon rose and Marcus talked. He told of the arrangements of the Norwegian and Danish troops, the mood that had prevailed in the Norwegian camp, the disposition of his king, the light that broke over the trio of peaks in the morning. He told of the swords being sharpened and the shields being polished. He told of the bright sky and the bright blood. Of old King Hamlet, carving rough and quick in the midst of battle. He told of the dying and the dead, the victors and the defeated.  
  
At last there was nothing left but to bury the dead and go home. Marcus lapsed into silence. The darkness was not thick around them, the moon hanging near-full in the sky, the field bright and silver before them, the shadows of the tree branches wiry and labyrinthine.  
  
A low fog rolled in and a figure emerged from it. A ghost that Horatio knew, that he’d seen before on the battlements of Elsinore. He had commanded it to speak and it had not. It had commanded him to swear and he had.  
  
‘Do you see this?’ whispered Horatio, but when he turned to Marcus, his friend was asleep.  
  
The ghost of old King Hamlet beckoned to Horatio. It turned and drifted across the field. Horatio couldn’t tell if it was floating or if its long ragged robes merely hid the movements of its feet across the still earth. He rose, then hesitated, knowing Marcus would be upset if he caught cold chasing after a ghost. He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and set out.  
  
The dead king waited at a part of the field indistinguishable from any other. The fog shifted and eddied around them.  
  
‘Still restless,’ said the ghost, its voice coming from a great distance. And tired, so very tired.  
  
‘Yes,’ said Horatio. He wondered if the old protocols still applied to a dead king. ‘Is there no peace? Even in the hereafter?’ he asked.  
  
‘Not for me,’ said the ghost. It stared out into the fog, its eyes following something Horatio couldn’t see. Its flowing torn clothes were a far cry from the full battle armour Horatio had seen it wearing on their previous meetings. ‘Perhaps I sent too many ahead of me,’ the ghost continued. ‘By sword or by decree, it matters little. The bodies are still bodies.’  
  
‘What of your son?’ asked Horatio.  
  
‘I do not know,’ said the ghost. ‘His path is far from mine.’ He smiled faintly for a moment. ‘But if I know my son, he will find some engaging way to fill eternity. Connecting the dots of all the stars in the sky into an endless maze, if nothing else.’  
  
Horatio looked skyward, but the fog blocked his view of the stars.  
  
‘You blame yourself,’ said the ghost. ‘You linger and you blame yourself.’  
  
‘I don’t,’ said Horatio, quickly. He knew he was not to blame, but that knowledge did nothing to ease the feeling that he was to blame. ‘I could have prevented them,’ he said, tears of sadness and rage forming in his eyes. ‘All of them. If I had stayed with Hamlet, I could have stopped him stabbing Polonius. If I had stayed with Ophelia, I could have stopped her falling into the river. I could have noticed something was wrong with the foils in the duel, stepped in to fend off Laertes, stopped Gertrude from drinking, stopped . . .’  
  
‘Even my brother,’ said the ghost.  
  
Horatio met the dead king’s grey eyes through his own tears. ‘Even your brother,’ he said. It was easier to talk to a dead king than a living one, it seemed.  
  
The ghost made a low grunt. ‘You are a more forgiving man than me,’ it said. It shook its head. ‘Blame me, if you like. It was me spurred the madness on.’  
  
‘I could not add to your burdens,’ said Horatio.  
  
‘Weight means little to me now,’ said the ghost.  
  
‘Even so,’ said Horatio.  
  
The ghost shrugged. ‘Think on it,’ it said. ‘Take a Hamlet-length of time to think on it.’  
  
Horatio found himself laughing as he wiped his eyes. ‘He would have made a terrible king,’ he said.  
  
‘I know,’ said the ghost, giving a sad smile. It looked to the horizon. ‘My time here is almost done,’ it said. ‘But if you wish advice from a dead fool, I say this: range further. What they tell of distance and pain is not quite true, but it is not untrue either.’  
  
Horatio thought, of the world beyond Denmark, of all the places he’d once spoken of seeing, before things turned to that tragedy.  
  
‘There are two dead men,’ he said, his thoughts gathering into a clearer picture. ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Killed in England as criminals. Their only crime was . . .’  
  
‘Not knowing what sort of tale they had wandered into,’ said the ghost.  
  
‘They deserve to be buried proper,’ said Horatio. ‘To have the truth known.’  
  
‘That would be a good deed,’ said the ghost.  
  
‘Just one,’ said Horatio.  
  
‘Sometimes, that is enough,’ said the ghost. It turned and walked into the fog. Its edges blurred with the moonlight and it was gone.  
  
Horatio stood in the fog for a time, growing colder and colder. Yet he felt somewhat lighter, he thought. Maybe. There was still an ache in his bones, and he was still tired, but something had changed. He turned, and he could see the easy and straight way back to the scraggly tree where Marcus still slumbered.  
  
He trod back towards his friend and crawled alongside his warm body. Horatio closed his eyes and there was no worry to come with the darkness. Not because of apathy, but because he knew, that in the morning when he awoke, that Marcus would be there.


End file.
